


maybe all you need is someone to trust

by alwaysbuddy



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Kingsman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Crossdressing, Light-Hearted, M/M, Mistaken Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 05:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysbuddy/pseuds/alwaysbuddy
Summary: She catches his gaze, and the corner of her mouth quirks up. "You're not the only one playing pretend, Toews.”





	maybe all you need is someone to trust

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Game 3's [AU tropes and prompts](http://coffeekristin.tumblr.com/post/161101396563/game-3-tropes-and-aus) of the [Blackhawks Summer Fic Fest 2017](http://coffeekristin.tumblr.com/post/161101119308/blackhawks-summer-fic-fest-2017)! 
> 
> I was gonna go with the 'Assassin!AU' prompt initially, but that turned into a secret agent!AU (everything I start seems to become something else eventually, what up with that, man) and I'd been looking at Kingsman 2 promos just the day before, so that managed to work its way in, and then that turned into a 'god, I really want Patrick Kane in a dress,' so. That happened.
> 
> So, this is pretty light and very much secret agent trope-y with a dash of suspension of disbelief and ridiculousness (because oh my god, I cannot write anything plotty for the life of me with only two days, and it's three in the morning, and I hate myself).
> 
> Quick note: I usually lock all my RPF fic immediately upon posting, but I'm gonna be leaving this unrestricted for three days.

 

He makes his way through the throng of people outside, past waiters and serving girls, moving by guests and carefully threading past the security without drawing any attention to himself. His name is on the guest list, but it’s better to have as little contact with any of the security as possible.

 _“How’s the weather?”_ comes the voice in his ear. _“Sure looks hot over there from where I am.”_

Jonny plucks a champagne flute off a tray, and tips it against his lips, pretending to take a sip as he murmurs, “If your wife only knew the things you said, Newfoundland.”

 _“Don’t bring her into this.”_ There’s a sniff. _“I can’t exactly look away from your camera feed, can I.”_

“Weather’s fine,” Jonny says. Warmer than he’d expected, even, for a summer night in Monte Carlo. He’s been here before on two previous missions, mostly similar to this—target in a nice, fancy villa, or a hotel or casino in the city. It’s a nice reprieve from the two weeks he’d just spent in a tiny one-room apartment in Trier, staking out the same window the entire time he’d been there.

But it’s really not like he can pick and choose. Canadian Intelligence doesn’t always get the very fancy missions, not like their counterparts in the United Kingdom, who tend to get all the good stuff going their way. Good equipment, good facilities.

And the good code-names. Especially the code-names. God, their own code-names are awful.

(“You don’t get to complain,” Richards had told him despairingly one night over drinks, “you’re not called Agent Prince Edward Island.”)

Well. He could definitely do worse than Manitoba.

_“Target’s in the dining hall. Stay close. He might make a move within the next hour.”_

Jonny makes his way around the fairly sizeable pool, and into the villa. It already is massive, but intel had revealed it to be even bigger on the inside, with multiple floors below, doubling as an underground-hideout.

Two floors down, in a small meeting room, is where the exchange is going to happen. Jonny’s been tasked with preventing the exchange and retrieving the information before it gets turned over.

He spots the target once he’s in the dining hall. “Sighted,” Jonny says into his glass again. The hall is filled with guests, chattering and enjoying themselves. But the real conversations are happening in the corners of the room, all business and networking. The dinner parties are always just a front.

Jonny moves around the room, and makes small talk with some of the guests, building a rapport. He’s playing a young business owner tonight, so he’s got to bullshit his way through a few light discussions about tech start-ups. Enough that someone will eventually introduce him to the target, he knows.

That’s the hard part. What’s next is much simpler: having the target shake his hand for long enough that the small fingerprint copier in his hand picks something up from the target. That’s the only way he’s going to be able to gain access to the lower floors.

Just as he’s close to moving in on the target, he notices the woman standing beside the window, a glass of wine in her hand. She’s looking around the room, but every now and then, her eyes return to the same man that Jonny’s waiting to approach.

Jonny’s curious now. He walks over, and casually sidles up next to her, before asking, “What’s a girl like you standing alone here in a place like this?”

She glances up at him. “Smooth,” she says, and her accent is familiar. American, probably. There’s a strange, shimmery quality to her voice that Jonny can’t quite place, but he chalks it up to it just being the way she sounds. “Do you try that line with all the ladies?”

“Just you,” Jonny says, and she smiles. She’s very pretty, Jonny thinks absently, blonde hair falling in waves to her shoulders, blue eyes, nice smile. If he wasn’t on a mission— “Not enjoying the party?”

“Well,” she says, “I did show up a little late, but that’s fine.” She takes a sip from her glass. “I always take a while to settle in first.”

“I see,” Jonny says vaguely. It’s a very bland conversation, Jonny realises, the kind that isn’t meant to attact any attention.

There’s a split second where he sees her glance at the target once more, and the movement of her hair reveals a minute flash something behind her ear. Something that looks like an earpiece.

She’s targeting him too, Jonny realises. They’re after the same guy. But—who could she possibly be with, though? They hadn’t gotten any information on anyone else planning on attempting to make a play tonight.

“Well,” Jonny says, deciding to move in on the target before she can, “I’ll be taking my leave, now, if you’d excuse me. There’s some business to be conducted.”

“Oh no, of course,” she says, and Jonny feels her eyes on him as he moves towards the group near the middle of the room, and inserts himself into the conversation, until he’s gathered enough of the target’s interest to want to introduce himself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Jonny tells the target, holding his hand out to shake. Just as the target’s about to do so, somebody comes up to him and mutters something into his ear. Jonny just watches as the target excuses himself and walks towards the doors.

“Shit,” Jonny whispers. He’s slipping out of the hall. “I’m gonna lose him.”

 _“Keep on him,”_ comes Sharpy’s instructions, and Jonny does, discreetly making his way along the same direction as the target. He follows the man out, and watches him go down a corridor, stopping at the third door. Jonny sees him press his thumb against a scanner, and the door unlocks.

Jonny wait a few seconds for the door to close, before walking down the same way, and inspecting it. He’s definitely going to need a fingerprint. The one that he didn’t manage to get earlier.

“Fuck,” Jonny mutters under his breath. He’s going to have to take the secondary entrance then, a tricky way in that's going to require a lot of care to not fall down a ventilation shaft to his death. The only issue here is time, now that the target’s making his way downstairs. Jonny knows the trade-off isn’t happening till the other party gets here, though.

Jonny moves away from the door, and backs into the hallway carefully.

There’s a click behind him, and he spins around, protracting the knives in his sleeves just as the woman from earlier points a gun right at him, stance symmetrical to his.

Her P226 is trained right at his forehead. He’s got one blade right up against her neck, the other by her ribs. Neither of them move.

“Who are you with?” Jonny demands, gaze locked with hers.

“That’s none of your concern,” she responds, just as brusquely as Jonny. Whoever she’d been back in that dining hall, she’s left there. “You’re in my way.”

“I could say the same about you.”

Neither of them wants to give up first, he knows. Jonny will be damned if he takes his eyes off her while she’s got a gun trained on him.

She’s looking straight at him, until her eyes flick down to his knife, and he watches the surprise flash on her face that disappears after a moment. She’s not looking at his knife, he realises, just as she meets his gaze once more—she’d been looking at the silver maple leaf cuff-links on his wrists. “You’re Canadian Intelligence, aren’t you,” she says, tilting her head slightly.

Jonny doesn’t answer just yet. He’s just noticed the simple, stylised initial ‘S’ in the middle of the black choker that’s snug around her throat. He’s seen that symbol before. It’s impossible to not know what it means. “You’re Statesman.”

The barely-there nod that he gets confirms his words. He’s worked with their agents before, and he’s aware that they generally give each other a wide berth where it comes to missions that don’t require more than one agency’s involvement.

This feels more accidental interference than anything.

Both of them steadily lower their weapons at the same time. “The actual fuck,” she says, disbelieving. And, alright, Jonny probably shouldn’t be taken aback by hearing a Statesman agent swearing, but he hadn’t quite expected the woman he met upstairs to be exactly that in the first place. “Does nobody know how to coodinate shit properly these days? We’re after the same thing, aren’t we.”

“Guess so,” Jonny says, and he retracts his blades, nodding. “Agent Manitoba.”

“Agent Whiskey.” She looks unimpressed. “Provinces, really?”

“Alcohol, really?” he retorts, and she scoffs. “Newfoundland, you getting this?”

 _“Clear as day,”_ Sharpy’s voice comes, and Jonny sees Whiskey raise her hand to press it against her ear, probably listening for her own organisation’s instructions. _“I don’t know how we didn’t get any message that they were going after the pen-drive too—looks like you’re gonna have to play nice for now. Yzerman’s calling their guys to make this an official co-op.”_

“Right,” Jonny replies, and he turns off the comm-link. “Looks like we’re working together on this.” He gets a nod from Whiskey, who slides her gun back into the garter holster on her thigh, just hidden by the sweeping fabric of her dress.

But, huh. This is odd. He hadn’t heard any news of there being a new female addition to Statesman. And he’s pretty sure the agents he’d worked with previously had mentioned the Whiskey role being occupied by a male agent.

Maybe he’d missed more than he initially thought, those two weeks in Germany.

 

 

  
The loud clunk of foosteps alerts them to the fact that they’re gonna get some company soon. Jonny glances at Whiskey, who’s fallen silent too, and motions towards the right-hand kink in the corridor. They’re moving for it immediately, putting their backs against the wall as they run through their options.

It only sounds like it’s one person, but they’re getting closer and closer. Whiskey turns to look at him, and she considers him in a way that makes him think that he might know what route she’s planning to take right now. “Okay,” she says, voice a low whisper, “Manitoba, I’m gonna need you to play along with me right now.”

“Yeah, got it,” Jonny says, already ahead of the curve. It’s not the first time he’s been in this position before, so it’s past memory he draws on when he moves to press Whiskey against the wall, one hand on her hip, and kisses her. 

He feels her hands slide into his jacket, palms warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Her lips are soft, and he’s tasting wine on her tongue just as the guard turns the corner and catches sight of them.

Jonny pulls away, and Whiskey makes a shocked sound. “Oh my, I can’t believe it, we just completely lost track of where we were—we’re so sorry,” she tells the security guard shyly, biting her lip.

The guard stumbles over his words, and waves off her apology. “If you could please leave this area now, both of you,” he says.

“Give us a moment to straighten up, please?” Jonny asks, “we’ll be quick, I promise,” and the guard nods, probably wanting to be anywhere but here right now. “Thank you,” he calls, as the guard moves back down the hallway.

As soon as they no longer hear footsteps, Jonny exhales, and presses a finger to his comm-link. “Clear,” he says, and he hears Sharpy’s acknowledgment.

“C’mon,” Whiskey says, snapping right out of character again, “we’ve gotta get this over with. We need to get eyes in that room. They’re already within the area.”

“The surveillance is—”

“Done,” she says, shooting him a smirk. “First thing I took out, which is why you had a bit of a head-start on me earlier.”

Explains why she said she’d arrived late to the party, Jonny recalls.

“You’re good,” Jonny says appreciatively, and Whiskey gives him another grin.

 _“Hate to break up the lovefest,”_ Sharpy says, interrupting the moment,  _“but we've gotta move.”_

"Got it. Lead the way."

 

 

  
They travel quick with Sharpy’s directions in Jonny’s ear; a few doors down and a couple of vents later, they’re within position to intercept the trade.

“You open the door,” Jonny tells Whiskey, voice low, “I’ll move in, you cover me.”

She shoots him a thumbs up, and there’s a beat as they both wait, before she’s yanking the door open, and Jonny’s aiming quick and fast with his tranquiliser for each person in the room, wanting to get them down before any of them can see their faces. They’d counted only five just now, including the target, and he tranqs four of them before Whiskey can even close the door behind her.

She gets the last one just as he’s about to raise his own gun, slumping to the floor instead.

“Damn.” Whiskey whistles low, surveying the room, lowering her gun. “Nice work.” She walks right over to the target and extracts the pen-drive from the briefcase that had been in his hands. “Got it, let’s go,” she says.

They go out the same way they came in, and they’re up a floor when Jonny tugs on the handle of one of the doors and finds it locked. “They’ve sealed the exits,” he says, “someone must have found them, pulled an alarm.”

Whiskey huffs out an irritated breath, and presses a finger against her ear. “Yeah,” she tells her handler on the other end, “yeah, got it.” She ends the comms and motions back down the corridor. “There’s another way out. We’ve got to go through some security, though. You good?”

“Better than good,” Jonny says. “Let’s go.”

 

 

  
They run into a bit of trouble near the end, a couple of guards spotting them.

Jonny manages to dodge their shots, ducking down behind a table, but Whiskey’s not so lucky.

"Fuck," she swears, voice dropping low, and Jonny glances over to see her clamp a hand over her forearm. "Fuckin’ fuck."

"You're hit," Jonny says, eyeing her arm. Looks like the bullet only grazed her, but she’s still bleeding a fair bit.

"Yeah, _no shit,"_ she snaps, but there's something weird about the way she sounds now, voice pitched lower and less unnatural, and Jonny pauses, eyes looking her over again. She catches his gaze, and the corner of her mouth quirks up. "You're not the only one playing pretend, Toews.”

Wait, the fuck—did she just use his real name?

He doesn’t get a chance to say anything, because a fresh round of bullets rings out, and Jonny’s moving across the space to where she is, getting a few shots off as he slides across the floor. “Cover me,” he tells her, and she nods.

Jonny takes a breath, before throwing himself back out into the open.

 

 

  
“How do you know my name?” Jonny finally gets to ask, once they’ve cleared the situation at hand. They’ve incapacitated the two lackeys, both of them left in a corner as they look for a way to get out of here. “Whiskey,” he says firmly, when she doesn’t respond. “How did you know what my name is?”

Whiskey just looks at him, amused. “I guessed,” she says, and Jonny can’t believe that at all, until she says, “I mean, you fit the description I've heard. Tall, dark eyes, amazing ass. There are myths about that thing. Your other agents do nothing but gossip when we’re on co-op missions. It’s amazing how little work we get done, sometimes.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Jonny says flatly. 

“Hey, I’m not complaining about the view,” she says, holding her hands up. “Also,” she adds, “you’re the only CI agent I haven’t met, actually. Pretty easy to connect the dots.”

“That’s not possible.” Jonny shakes his head. “You can’t have met everyone in the past month alone.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Oh,” she says. “You think I’m new?”

“You’re not?”

Whiskey laughs, still not looking at Jonny, and she presses her thumb against the inlay on her choker. There’s a tiny whirr and a click, and suddenly, her breaths don’t quite sound the same anymore.

She glances up, and says, in a voice that’s pitched much lower, in a voice that’s much closer to his now, a voice that doesn’t sound like the one he’s been hearing the entire time they’ve spoken together, "You able to work it out yet, Manitoba?"

 _Voice changer,_ Jonny realises. So that’s why she’d had such a peculiar tone to her words when she spoke. It must have gotten damaged earlier, or started to run out of power, when Jonny had started to notice her voice changing a little.

And it's at that point that it all clicks together in his head—the disguise, the code-name, the way things had just felt _off—_ Jonny had been wondering when Statesman had added another female agent to their organisation, but they hadn’t.

They’d just decided to send the organisation’s best identity forger.

"You're Patrick Kane," Jonny says, and yes—Patrick Kane, still done up in spidery blue lace and strappy high heels, winks at him as he puts his gun away. "I... well. I hadn't quite expected your skill-set to include—this."

"Nobody ever does," Kane says matter-of-factly, “which is why I’m the best.” He’s tugging at one of his garters and genuinely frowning at the rip in it. "Aw, fuck. I liked these."

Christ. Jonny’s still reeling a little from the revelation. And, fuck, he’d made out with Kane in the hallway. And, oh God—it’s not like his sexuality’s completely shaken up by this, he’s into men and women, he’s perfectly fine—but. Well. He might need a couple of seconds to properly parse things.

“Hey. Are you gonna get weird about this?” Kane asks, raising an eyebrow, “because I’m not gonna take any shit from you for doing my job. And yeah, if it’s about the fact that we kissed while you still thought I was a woman—”

“No, no, Jesus.” Jonny shakes his head. “It’s just—uh—”

Kane’s expression turns gleeful. “Oh no. You’re not getting weird about it. You’re _into_ it,” he points out, sounding like he’s just been given an entire sack of candy for his birthday, and Jonny looks up at the ceiling, wishing the floor would swallow him up whole. “I’m starting to like this turn of events.”

“You would,” Jonny mutters.

“Least I know I’ve still got it with this one,” Kane says, more to himself than Jonny, probably talking about the identity he’s assumed tonight. “Would’ve worked with the target if we hadn’t been compromised, though. Fuck.”

“I can tell you, it definitely hasn’t stopped working since then,” Jonny says, before he can stop himself.

“Manitoba,” Kane says, sounding much too pleased, “are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

 _“You better not be,”_ Sharpy’s voice comes in his ear, sounding disgruntled, _“I’m hearing far too much about your love-life as it is. Ugh. There’s an open vent above you, four panels to your right, leading to the next floor. Exits are shut down, you’re gonna have to climb. We’ll guide you both out from there.”_

“Got it,” Jonny replies, and he waits for Kane to finish listening to whatever’s being said into his own earpiece, before motioning towards the vent. “You good to climb?”

“You might have to give me a hand up,” Kane says slyly.

Jonny’s eyes immediately slide down and back-up in a once-over. Shit, he hopes nobody back in HQ ever watches his camera feed from tonight.

 _“Oh my god, stop,”_ Sharpy says. Jonny ignores him.

 

 

  
They make it out with little trouble, only having to traverse a couple more hallways and another vent cautiously before making it back up into the main villa. Jonny effortlessly steals a suit jacket from a coat rack to put around Kane’s shoulders, under the guise of escorting a pretty woman home in the cold night’s air.

Nobody stops them as they leave. Jonny keeps his arm possessively tight around Kane, and Kane bats his eyelashes at all the right times and hangs onto Jonny like he’s a tipsy limpet. They make a good pair.

“Where are you headed?” Jonny asks, once they’re in the clear. They’d made their way around the compound and down the back of some hills, carefully scaling the face of a small cliff to get onto the deserted beach. From there, they can probably make their way back to the city within an hour. Not too far off.

“The Mirabeau,” Kane says, “you?”

“I was going to fly straight out, actually.”

“Yeah?” Kane considers him for a long moment. “Hey, Toews. Come back to my room with me.”

Jonny meets his eyes. They’re still ringed in make-up, pretty blues under long lashes. He remembers how soft Kane’s mouth had been under his. He wants to feel that again.

“Okay,” Jonny says, and Kane’s smile is wide and promising.

 

 

  
They take a moment to clean up, and patch themselves up first, once they’re in the hotel room. Kane hands him a first-aid kit, and Jonny helps bandage his arm where the bullet had grazed him. It’d ripped right into the sleeve of his dress, too. Jonny had just ended cutting that off to put it on.

“Y’know, I really liked that one too,” Kane says, mourning the loss of another piece of his outfit. He’d shimmied out of it right after Jonny removed the torn sleeve. It lies at the foot of the bed, looking a little worse for wear. “Guess you’re gonna have to make it up to me.”

“Am I,” Jonny says, amused, but he tilts Kane’s face up for a kiss, a proper one, not like the one they’d shared in the hallway. That had just been an act.

Now, Kane’s mouth is soft and warm under his, but Kane’s kissing back harder than before, his tongue stroking along Jonny’s, pulling him in for more. Jonny presses the pad of his thumb against the corner of Kane’s mouth, pressing it open so that Jonny can suck at Kane’s lower lip. It’s everything he’s wanted since he got to taste him the first time around.

“Kane—” Jonny says, pulling back slightly, but Kane’s shaking his head.

“Patrick—call me Patrick,” he says, and Jonny pushes Patrick down against the bed, nosing along the curve of his shoulder to scatter more kisses along his skin. “God, please.”

“Thanks, but it’s Jonny,” he says, and it makes Patrick laugh brightly, like an easy, sweet summer day. “Can I—”

“Yeah,” breathes Patrick, “yeah, c’mon Jonny, please.”

Patrick’s still ridiculously pretty, even after he’s scrubbed off all the make-up on his face, and taken his wig off. Jonny runs his fingers through his hair, not as blond as the wig, but still a lovely gold, and tousled in a dozen directions. He’s really exactly Jonny’s type, slim and compact and mouthy, and Jonny thinks he’s gonna be done in for if Patrick keeps looking up at him through his lashes like this, mouth a swollen red from the kissing.

“Too many clothes,” Patrick murmurs against his mouth, and he’s tugging at Jonny’s buttons, yanking his shirt off even as he wraps his legs around Jonny, pressing the heel of one foot into the small of Jonny’s back, wanting him to get nearer.

Jonny catches Patrick’s knees in his hands, and he slides his palms down Patrick’s calves, and back up again, feeling the satiny fabric on skin. He’s still wearing nylon stockings. Just the stockings, and underwear—and Christ, Jonny hadn’t looked earlier just to be polite about it, but Patrick had been wearing a pair of black panties under the dress too.

“Fuck,” Jonny breathes, and Patrick huffs out an impatient breath when Jonny slides back down the bed, but that changes pretty quite when Jonny gets his mouth on Patrick, tugging the panties to one side with his fingers. He doesn’t want to take them off, he wants to see them on him, the stark contrast to the rest of his body. That flimsy bit of lace, tight around his ass and hips. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” Jonny tells him, relishing in the soft noises that Patrick’s making.

It doesn’t take long for Jonny to make Patrick come, and Patrick’s not shy about what he wants when he pulls Jonny back up to wrap a hand around Jonny, the warmth and the slide getting Jonny close enough for him to fall right over the edge when Patrick bites at Jonny’s lip and then tongues over the bruise.

“Mm,” Patrick murmurs, sounding satisfied, and Jonny rolls off Patrick and onto his side, pressing his face against Patrick’s shoulder. “We gotta do that again sometime.”

“Yeah?” Jonny runs the tips of his fingers along Patrick’s nape, playing with his hair. “I like the sound of that.”

 

 

  
They part ways in the morning, Patrick heading back to the States, and Jonny back to Canada. Patrick’s taking the pen-drive back with him, they’d decided, after a quick check-in with both their HQs in the morning. Neither of them acknowledge each other once they’ve stepped outside the hotel, and Jonny gets on his flight.

He only finds the card in the pocket of his trousers when he’s on the plane, flying back to headquarters. It’s somebody’s business card for some investment company, but he flips it over and finds a phone number scrawled across the empty space on the back of the card.

There’s a single lipstick kiss pressed right under it.

Jonny smiles, and pockets the card.

 

 

  
One year later, Jonny walks into the Statesman headquarters, and knocks on the door to their main meeting hall, where he’s about to formally be introduced to the rest of the Statesman agents and the agent liaison he’s to work with for the next year or so.

“Perfect timing.” Ed Olczyk, the current head of Statesman, gets up to shake Jonny’s hand as he walks in. “Everyone, meet Jonathan Toews, Canadian Intelligence’s representative.”

“Good to be here,” Jonny says, nodding.

“You’ll be working closely with our representative here,” Olczyk introduces, motioning back towards one of his agents.

And across the table, sitting slick in a bespoke suit, with a bright red and black tie loose around his neck, is Patrick Kane.

“Manitoba,” Patrick says, smiling something sharp and purposeful.

“Whiskey,” Jonny replies, smiling right back. It’s been a while.

Olczyk watches the interaction go down with a weird expression on his face. “I assume you both met during that debacle in Monaco,” he says, sounding like he wishes he didn’t have to say it.

“’Met’ might be a bit of an understatement,” Patrick murmurs.

Somebody groans. Patrick just grins even wider.

Jonny refuses to react. One of them has to remain professional, at least.

(But that doesn’t stop Jonny from letting Patrick tug him into one of the empty rooms in the distillery an hour later.)

“Professional,” Patrick laughs, more a breathless gasp, really, as Jonny runs his teeth along the curve of Patrick’s neck. It’s really become his favourite spot to leave marks on him. “Is this your first official act as CI liaison, then? Establishing good relations between the organisations? Yeaaaah baby, gimme that synergy.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jonny says, and he leans up to kiss Patrick firmly on the lips, getting a nice, good response as Patrick makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands moving down Jonny’s back to clutch at his ass. It makes him roll their hips together, and Jonny exhales, closing his eyes. “God, I missed this.”

“Four months,” Patrick says, sounding just as frustrated and wanting, “way too fuckin’ long.”

“Yeah.” The first time they’d fallen together like this after the Monaco mission had been a spur-of-the-moment, _we’re in the same country right now so let’s bang,_ kind of a thing. Since then, it’s become more thought out and more—everything, Jonny supposes.

He never thought he’d fall for another agent. But here they are.

Patrick bites at Jonny’s lip, tightens his legs around Jonny’s hips, and says, “So. I’ve been wearing this ridiculously lacy underwear all day.” He waits for Jonny to pause, before adding, “I’ve been waiting to get you to pull ‘em off me with your teeth.”

 _“Jesus,”_ Jonny says, fingers already undoing Patrick’s trousers, “you’re absolutely awful, you know that? I just—Fuck you.”

Patrick laughs, and draws Jonny closer, sucking a kiss under his jaw. “Mm,” he says. “I hope so.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr (motorsports/hockey)](http://schadenfraudulent.tumblr.com) | [title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1ZB_rGFyeU)


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